Control

by David Mack

  Earth had become one civilization, one people. It had been a long time coming, and the march toward unification had been fraught with missteps and false starts.

  Humanity’s first attempt at global governance had been the short-lived United Earth Republic. Established in 2113, it was rejected by several major nation-states from its inception. By 2123 all but a handful of countries had withdrawn from the UER, rendering it defunct.

  In 2130, the Traité d’Unification met with broader support, though it too was resisted by a few powers—notably, Australia and China, in defiance of their Pan-Pacific Alliance partners, and the United States, which had clung stubbornly to its independence in spite of its purported leadership role in the Western Coalition. Absent their ratification, the Traité d’Unification had, for the past twenty years, been nothing more than a piece of paper.

  Until today, when three signatures on an addendum changed the world forever.

  Countries still existed, but there were no more borders. The old territorial designations still had their uses, for postal services if nothing else. But there would be no more rival superpowers putting the fate of the planet and the species at risk with useless posturing over natural resources or the illusion of national sovereignty. A single global parliament now governed the affairs of everyone on Earth.

  Naturally, the majority of the population observed this historic milestone for their species by inebriating themselves halfway to the point of blindness and filling the streets with vomit.

  Far from all that madness and debauchery, Aaron Ikerson stood in the center of the ballroom of Buckingham Palace, surrounded by dignitaries and celebrities, possessed by a single thought: I am an utter fraud.

  Projected along the walls, high above the celebrants’ heads, were holographic images from around the world. One showed the new prime minister of the Terran Parliament exchanging pleasantries with an envoy from the planet Vulcan. Another carried a live feed from Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco, where admirals and their adjutants feigned the ability to have fun when it seemed obvious most of them would have been happier working through the holiday. Most of the other holograms depicted an ever-shifting tableau of scenes from around the world.

  How can I tell these people their world is built on a lie?

  A hand slapped his back hard enough to make him spill Champagne on the floor. He turned to greet the culprit. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “Not yet.” The tuxedoed brown fireplug with gray hair and an Alabama accent cracked a smile so perfect it could only have been a product of dental science. “Simon Branch.”

  As soon as Ikerson heard the name he knew who the man was. “The director of the new Earth Security Agency?” He shook Branch’s hand. “An honor to meet you, sir.”

  “To hear Admiral Rao tell it, the honor’s all mine.” Ikerson tensed at the mention of the admiral. Branch moved closer and lowered his voice. “She’s a bit stingy with the details, but she says you developed the program that made today possible.”

  “I’m sorry? I did what?”

  Branch swung his Champagne flute toward the holograms. “This. World peace.” His mood darkened. “There were plenty of folks on this ball o’ rock who’d just as soon have gone on fightin’. Hard-liners, rebels, insurgents. Call ’em what you will.” His smile returned as broad, white, and fake as before. “Those who like this kinda thing call it progress. Those who don’t call it tyranny. Funny how that works, ain’t it?”

  The more Branch said, the less Ikerson knew what he wanted. “People can be irrational political actors. Still, I’m thankful we’ve come this far. Maybe there’s hope for us after all.”

  “I think there is—and I think you invented it.” He leaned in, his manner conspiratorial. “Rao and others I trust tell me that if it weren’t for your help, it might have taken decades longer to get us here. The water revolt in the Hindu Kush, the Terra Prime rebellion, the uprisings in Irkutsk and ­Montana—they all got headed off at the pass by means I never could figure out.” A small shrug. “And that’s fine. I don’t need the details. I might even be happier not knowing.”

  You have no idea.

  Branch continued, “What matters to me is whether your methods will work for us beyond this planet. I don’t need to know how you mix the secret sauce. Just tell me this: Is it scalable?”

  “It’s already in place on Luna and Mars,” Ikerson said, then immediately wondered if he had said too much. “Beyond that, I suppose it could be expanded, though spreading it past this solar system raises some technical hurdles I—”

  “Spare me the nuts and bolts,” Branch said. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at the holo of the new prime minister with the alien envoy. “Can you make it work on Vulcan?”

  Ikerson froze. He had ample reason to think Rao had already implemented Uraei on Vulcan, but if she had withheld that knowledge from Branch for whatever reason, it seemed inappropriate—and perhaps even dangerous—for Ikerson to share it with him. On the other hand, lying to Branch could have equally dire consequences in the long run. He would have to protect himself with half-truths and careful omissions.

  “I think my method could work on Vulcan . . . given the right conditions.”

  The security director gave Ikerson’s shoulder a friendly slap. “Just what I wanted to hear. Let me freshen up your drink.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Nonsense, your glass is empty.” He led Ikerson toward the bar. “Stick with me, Professor. Together, you and I will change the shape of the future.”

  “Into what?”

  “One in which Earth claims its proper place.” He waved over the bartender. “Bourbon, neat. And for my Swedish friend here—” He shot a prompting glance at Ikerson.

  “Martini, extra dry. Nolet’s gin.”

  The bartender stepped away to mix the drinks, so Branch continued, at a more discreet volume this time. “For now we have to let the Vulcans take the lead and call the shots. But they won’t be steering our fate forever. If your program is all Rao says it is, our day is coming.”

  “I thought the whole point of our partnership with Vulcan was that we’re equals.”

  “We are. And we will be.” That fake smile became a phony grin. “Our job is just to make certain that Earth ends up as the first among equals.”

  Fourteen

  A comfortable bunk, subdued amber lighting, the gentle hush of Archeus’s ventilation system—conditions in the guest quarters were ideal for restful sleep, yet Bashir lay awake, staring at the overhead, tortured by his guilty conscience. He did his best to lie still. Tossing and turning would only disturb Sarina. It was hard not to envy her slumber. Stretched out on her side with her back to him, she seemed to Bashir to be a paragon of calm.

  He breathed the softest of sighs, certain he was alone with his insomnia.

  “What’s wrong, Julian?” Sarina rolled onto her back and regarded him with a sympathetic frown. “Why can’t you sleep?”

  “A million reasons, but nothing I can put a label on.” He shifted onto his side to face her. “Mostly, it’s the feeling that we’ve gotten in over our heads this time.”

  Half her face was steeped in shadow, but he saw sly amusement curl her lips. “That’s our standard operating procedure, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly feels that way.” He reached out and touched her honey-blond hair. Feeling its silken texture centered him and made him grateful Sarina was at his side. “We keep putting other people in danger. Every time I swear no more blood on my hands, someone else dies.”

  She rested her palm against his bearded cheek. “What happened in Dresden wasn’t our fault. We vetted Graniv’s precautions. She did all she could to shield them from harm.”

  “It wasn’t enough. It never is with Thirty-one.”

  Sarina mirrored his regret and sorrow for two souls he’d never even met. “I kn
ow it isn’t fair what happened to them. But we can’t change it—all we can do is make the guilty pay for it.”

  “Easier said than done.” His mind cast itself back through all of his ill-fated encounters with his nemeses from the shadows. “Thirty-one’s been ahead of me every time I’ve faced them. First it was Sloan and all his dirty tricks, then it was Cole. Now we’re haunted by L’Haan—and thanks to us, Ozla, Data, Lal, and Shakti will be as well.”

  He sat up and considered getting out of bed. Sarina took him by his shoulders and eased him back down beside her. “Don’t beat yourself up like this. Ozla puts herself in danger as part of her job, and whether she knew it or not, her life was in peril the moment Weng and th’Firron contacted her. In fact, you and I bringing her to Data might be the only reason she’s still alive right now. So give yourself credit for that much, at least.”

  Her rebuttal was logical but didn’t make him feel better. “What if we bought her a little more time at Data and Lal’s expense? Thirty-one must know who and what Data is, but they came after him without a moment’s hesitation. That’s because of us. We brought Uraei to him; now he and his—well, I suppose family, for lack of a better term—are on the run with us. How can I ever apologize for doing this to him?”

  “I think if you asked Data, he’d say you don’t have to. We told him what we were dealing with and he helped us anyway. Besides . . .” She let slip a huff of cynical suppressed laughter. “I’d be willing to bet he, Lal, and Shakti have far better survival odds right now than we do.”

  “That’s the worst pep talk I’ve ever heard,” Bashir teased. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: you really need to work on your bedside manner.”

  “And as I keep telling you, I have a doctorate but I’m not that kind of a doctor.”

  They chortled together at their long-running inside joke. When the mirth abated they lay silently in each other’s arms. Bashir still felt a profound unquiet in his soul, but he also felt just the slightest measure less alone and less afraid than he had minutes earlier.

  “There must be some way to use what we learned on Orion,” he said.

  Sarina looked at him as if he sprouted antennae. “What exactly do you think we learned, Julian? I mean, aside from the fact that Uraei is everywhere and packs a hell of a punch.”

  “Well, we already knew the former, and we’d suspected the latter. But Data and Shakti were able to map Uraei’s presence before they incurred its wrath. That might give us an idea of where to go to plan our next move.”

  “If it did, I’m sure Shakti and Data are already working—”

  A dulcet tone from the overhead speaker was followed by Shakti’s mellifluous voice. “Doctor Bashir? Ms. Douglas? Pardon the intrusion. I noticed you were awake and hoped this might be a good time to share some news with you.”

  Bashir sat up. “Good news, I hope.”

  “I wish it were. It seems that Uraei, or the party controlling it, is no longer content to entrust our capture to its own covert assets. General orders have been sent by Starfleet Command and the Federation Security Agency calling for the capture and impound of this vessel, and for the apprehension of yourselves as well as of Data, Lal, and Ms. Graniv.” Shakti struck a decidedly sardonic note as she added, “I imagine they would add my name to their warrants if they possessed the faintest conception of who and what I truly am.”

  “No doubt,” Bashir said. “Thank you for the update.”

  “You’re welcome, Doctor. One more thing: Mister Data wants to meet with you both and with Ms. Graniv at oh-eight-hundred to discuss the next step in our shared flight from injustice.”

  Sarina answered, “We’ll look forward to it. Good night, Shakti.”

  “Good night, Ms. Douglas.” The comm channel closed with a faint click.

  Bashir and Sarina sank back into bed and stared at the ceiling. She sighed. “Great. Now we’re being hunted by our enemies and our friends.”

  He pulled her close, kissed her cheek, and grinned. “Just like old times.”

  • • •

  Breakfast the next morning didn’t take long. Data and Lal didn’t need to eat, neither Bashir nor Sarina seemed to have much of an appetite, and Graniv had long ago learned to start her days on little more than raktajino and righteous rage—both of which she presently had in spades. It was making the day’s first discussion on the command deck a lively one, to say the least.

  “I get why you’re all talking about running for the deepest sectors of space this ship can reach,” Graniv said, “but I want to be clear that I’m not willing to go into hiding for the rest of my life. And I’m not just saying that for selfish reasons, even though I’ve got plenty, believe me. Before any of you forget why we’re in this mess, this may well be the biggest political news story in the history of the Federation. And I will see it told even if it kills me.”

  Douglas met Graniv’s rant with doubt and disdain. “It might, you know. Kill you.”

  “Did you think I was speaking metaphorically? Or exaggerating for effect? This isn’t a game to me. It’s what I do. So when I say I’m ready to die to make sure the truth comes out—”

  Bashir raised a hand. “We understand, Ms. Graniv. And I, for one, am heartened to know how much this means to you. But at the moment, all our fates are linked. Right now your death would very likely also lead to all of ours. An outcome I’m sure most of us would rather avoid.”

  Despite having called the meeting, Data had spent most of it listening. He straightened his posture and took a half step forward, commanding the group’s attention. “I am sympathetic to Ms. Graniv’s wish to see the truth about Uraei exposed. Her assessment of its importance to the continued integrity of the Federation’s way of life is, I think, correct. For that reason, I too reject the proposition to retreat beyond the bounds of known space.” He and Lal shared an anxious glance. “But I also have to consider the safety and well-being of my daughter. Uraei has succeeded in making all of us, including her, wanted fugitives throughout the Federation. As such, we need to consider temporarily relocating beyond its political reach.” He eyed the group’s reactions before he added, “I am open to suggestions.”

  Graniv tossed out the obvious idea: “How about the ­Klingon Empire?”

  “I don’t know,” Douglas said. “It’s not as if the Klingons are known for honoring their extradition treaties, but the politics behind this don’t work in our favor.”

  A concurring nod from Bashir. “She’s right. If it were any other power hunting us, the Klingons would block extradition purely out of spite. But Martok won’t risk the Empire’s special relationship with the Federation. He’ll twist every arm on the High Council to send us back.”

  Shakti chimed in via the speakers overhead: “What about the Ferengi Alliance?”

  A derisive laugh from Douglas. “Anything the Federation wants, Nagus Rom gives. He’s probably drafting an extradition order right now as a preemptive measure. Ferenginar is out.”

  Graniv was desperate to find an option. “Oh, come on. There must be somewhere we can go. The Talarian Republic? The First Federation?”

  “Both cultures are notoriously opposed to alien visitors,” Data said, “in particular, alien expatriates suspected of criminal activity.”

  “Too bad the Borg fried Nausicaa,” Graniv said. “We’d have fit right in with them.” She could feel they were running out of road. “I’m guessing all the Typhon Pact powers are out.”

  “The Breen have standing orders to kill me and Sarina on sight,” Bashir said.

  Douglas added, “As do the Tholians. Not sure about the Gorn, the Tzenkethi, or the Romulans, but if I had to guess, I’d say asking them for help sounds like a bad idea.”

  Lal interjected, “Maybe we could defect.”

  “Right,” Graniv said. “That’ll do wonders for our credibility when we tell the people of the Federati
on the truth about Uraei.” She shifted back to Bashir. “How about the Kinshaya?”

  “Right . . . the Kinshaya. I keep forgetting about them.”

  “So? What about them?” Graniv grew impatient. “Will they help us?”

  “Not a chance,” Bashir said. “They hate everybody who isn’t them.”

  “I thought that was the Sheliak,” Douglas said.

  “Them too. And so does the Patriarchy. But the Selel­vians . . . no, forget it. They’d gut us like fish just for landing on their planet.”

  Graniv noticed an odd silent exchange between Lal and Data. The young female android cast a hopeful look up at her sire. His brow creased in a gentle scowl, instantly dimming Lal’s optimistic gleam. She looked at the deck, he went on listening to Bashir and Douglas argue over potential destinations, and no one but Graniv seemed to take any note of the peculiar interaction.

  “That rules out the Metron Consortium and Nalori Republic,” Douglas said. “We might as well park ourselves in the Badlands and hope we don’t get swallowed by a plasma funnel.”

  Hearing of the infamous Badlands region of space jogged Graniv’s memory. “Just a second now—what about the Cardassian Union? Is there anyone there who might be inclined to help us out?”

  Douglas cocked an eyebrow at Bashir, who adopted a put-upon frown. “I was hoping to avoid that if at all possible,” he said.

  “Well, it isn’t,” Douglas said. “If ever there was a time to call in a favor, this is it.”

  Their discussion seemed to trouble Data. “I am not sure the Cardassian Union would be a safe haven. The Federation has contributed heavily to its reconstruction since the end of the Dominion War. Our map of Uraei’s activity shows it has a presence in Cardassian space.”